Sometimes I want some peace and
quiet.You know, when do I have time to
myself?As I am working on this
assignment, my five-year-old is babbling about how he doesn’t want his sister
in his room and he really needs to use the computer as soon as I am finished
with my work.Oh yeah, he wants to sit
right here and wait on me to finish, too.How can I work like this?Well,
God said he would not put more on us than we can handle, but sometimes I know I
put more on myself than I can handle.

It has been
a fairly treacherous path to where I sit now.Thirty years old, two children and three years into my second marriage
and teaching for five years with an almost complete graduate degree.The odds were against me from the beginning.
. . .

“You will
never amount to anything!You’re stupid
and don’t have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot with the directions
printed on the bottom!”These are a few
of the words of encouragement I received from my father growing up.I can’t explain all of the fusses, fights,
multiple moves, low self-esteem and hatred I felt towards him growing up.It wasn’t until his death that I even
realized I did care for him.This is
something I still sort through and probably always will.I just know I grew up asking, “Why me” and
“Why not some other family” for a very long time.

I wanted to
live in the popular districts or just a regular subdivision.Instead, I was tossed back and forth from
trailer to apartment, knowing that as soon as I felt remotely comfortable there
we would be moving.This endless parade
of what I refer to as the “relocation program” did not end until my junior year
of high school.Sometimes I am still
jealous of my sisters because they never endured the multiple moves as I
did.Is that fair?To be envious of someone because of what she
did not have to go through?Honestly, I
am glad they did not have certain aspects to add to their lists of painful
childhood memories.Lord knows, the five
of us have more than enough.

“Just wrap the washrag around your neck
after you finish gargling with this warm salty water.”Mama offered backwoods nursing techniques for
strep throat or any other flu-like symptom I had growing up.I remember my brother’s tonsils swollen so
large that he appeared to have huge tennis balls sticking out around his
esophagus.Why couldn’t we go to the
doctor—that’s an
easy one—no
money and no sympathy for children who tried to horn in on daddy’s
drinking fund.Eight year olds should
not have a concept of “what if the lights get cut off” or toting pots of hot
water to the orange-stained bath tub in order to have semi-warm water to wash
in before school the next day.The image
of the bathroom in Fight Club haunts me as a room I once had in a rundown
house we lived in.

I felt most
sorry for my brothers since they were in high school at the time.I never remember not being aware of how
incredibly different my white family was in comparison to the white families
around me.For example, my brothers were
pretty popular in their day and had many rich, uppity girls wishing for a
date.Date?How could they take out anybody—the girls would provide
transportation, money—it
was a bit odd.Still, my brothers
focused intently on “saving face” and believing nobody at school knew or could
even imagine how we lived day to day.On
any given school morning it was typical to see my brother up before 5 a.m. washing his hair in cold water
over the kitchen sink with his jeans laying across the oven behind him drying.My other brother was always on the lazy side,
and he would be up much later, frantically trying to achieve his routine in
record time before school.I sat back
and observed—recording
these memories in my heart and embedding them into my soul.

I keep
saying I am going to write a book one day about my childhood and the issues of
poverty and alcoholism that affected my entire family.We were the outcasts at family reunions:the “others” who did not have transportation
to attend family weddings, funerals, or other important events.Never mind that we also did not have proper
attire for these functions or even proper nourishment in our home.Poverty is a hard issue to grasp—money becomes your
cure-all for any and all problems.One
thing is certain—I
promised and prayed every day that I would not live like this as an adult and I
would never raise my children under such conditions.

So what do
I have to complain about?I have a nice
house, nice truck, beautiful children, loving husband, good job, opportunities
to further my career, bonds with my family, whatmore do I need?An outlet would be nice; yes, a source to
share this information and hopefully inspire someone to get out of a difficult
situation and not become that monster that you grew up with.It takes grit, determination, and a real
stubborn attitude to achieve.Fortunately for me, I inherited the stubbornness from both sides.